I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

A few days passed. Ibnor maintained his routine: hunting, gathering, and tending to the cave. The girl, with surprising resilience, adapted quickly. She diligently practiced her English, her accent softening daily, though a charming lilt persisted. She also began mirroring Ibnor's actions, learning to gather firewood, identify edible plants, and even practice throwing stones, her small form mimicking his movements with focused determination. There was a quiet intensity in her imitation, as if by mirroring him, she could somehow bridge the gap between her mind and body.

One evening, as they sat by the fire, the flickering flames painting the cave walls with dancing shadows, Ibnor decided it was time. He couldn't put it off any longer.

"Tell me what you remember," he began gently, watching her carefully. 

"Everything… my memories," she frowned, brow furrowed in concentration. "I was crossing the street… on my way to work. And then… nothing. Just… here." She wrapped her small arms around herself, a chill seemingly unrelated to the cool cave air.

Ibnor's gaze softened. "Work? You were going to work?" He glanced at her small frame. "You're… a kid."

Her expression tightened, a flash of something akin to grief in her eyes. "I wasn't," she corrected, her voice barely a whisper. 

"I had a life. A job, bills, responsibilities… a whole future planned out." She looked down at her small hands, flexing her fingers as if trying to reconnect with a lost sense of control. "Now… it's gone."

Understanding washed over Ibnor, a pang of empathy striking him. "Wait. You're saying… you were an adult, and then… you ended up in this body?"

"Exactly." A bitter smile touched her lips, quickly fading. "It's like my life was just… erased. Except I'm still in here, remembering everything."

Ibnor hesitated, then plunged in. "So, you're… from…" He tried to say the name, but the word caught in his throat, an invisible barrier slamming down. 

"Damn it! I still can't say it." He rubbed his temples, a headache beginning to throb.

"Say what?" she asked, her attention momentarily diverted.

"It's… complicated," Ibnor sighed. "Try this. Introduce yourself. Like you're meeting someone from a completely different world." 

"Are you sure?" she asked, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. 

"Just try," he urged gently.

She took a deep breath. "Hello, my name is Lee Ha-Rin. I am twenty-three years old and I come from…" She paused, a look of genuine surprise and a touch of fear spreading across her face. The name of her world remained stubbornly locked away, hovering just beyond her grasp, a phantom word on her tongue. 

"***** *****," she finished, her voice barely audible, bewildered and frightened. 

A beat of silence hung in the air as Ibnor focused on her face. Red hair, green eyes… it clicked. 

"Harin?!" He was stunned by the impossible coincidence, but surviving in this world had taught him to mask his emotions. His expression remained neutral. His enhanced mental clarity—a lingering benefit from his own unexpected arrival—allowed him to quickly process the implications.

"It's her. It's really her. This is before… before I even arrived. If I'm not careful, this could seriously complicate things…"

"What was… that?" she whispered, her eyes wide with a newfound understanding.

"What was what?" Ibnor was jolted out of his musing.

"I can't say… I couldn't say…"

"It seems whatever brought us here… doesn't want us revealing where we're from," Ibnor explained carefully.

"So… you're like me?" she asked, her voice small.

Ibnor hesitated, then shook his head slightly. "Not exactly," Ibnor replied, glancing at her small form. "I arrived as myself. You… arrived as… this."

Her eyes welled up, the injustice of her situation finally overwhelming her. She looked down at her hands, wiggling her small fingers, tears now streaming down her face. She didn't bother to wipe them away. 

"This is so unfair," she whispered, her voice choked with sobs. "I was going to be late for work… I had a presentation… and now…" She looked up at Ibnor, her eyes filled with a child's raw despair. "I just want to go home."

Ibnor's expression softened. He reached out and gently placed a hand on her small shoulder.

"We've talked about so much, but I still don't know your name," she mumbled, sniffling.

Ibnor looked at her, a mixture of amusement and something else, something deeper, in his eyes. He couldn't help himself as a mischievous thought came to him. 

"You can call me Loki."

Time passed, measured by the changing seasons and the slow growth of Harin's hair. Ibnor and Harin learned more about each other, piecing together fragments of their former lives while navigating the harsh realities of their current one. Skyrim was brutal. Bandits roamed the roads, wildlife posed a constant threat, and there were always those individuals who prioritized their own survival above all else. More than once, desperate scavengers or roving bandits attempted to claim their cave, forcing Ibnor to defend their makeshift home with a ferocity that surprised even him.

It was during these tense encounters that the dynamic between them truly solidified. Ibnor, hardened by his previous experiences in Skyrim, instinctively resorted to brutal efficiency. He taught Harin the basics of survival: how to wield a makeshift dagger, how to identify dangerous creatures, and how to move silently through the forest. He showed her how to set traps, how to track game, and how to fight if necessary. His methods were practical, born of necessity, but sometimes… brutal.

That's where Harin came in. Her still-modern perspective, her ingrained sense of right and wrong, acted as a constant check on Ibnor's darker impulses. When he suggested a particularly ruthless tactic, she would object, her voice small but firm. 

"There has to be another way," she'd say, her brow furrowed. Sometimes, she'd even refuse to participate, forcing him to find a less violent solution.

One such instance involved a group of three bandits who had tracked them to the cave. Ibnor had planned to ambush them in the woods, eliminating them before they even reached the entrance. Harin, however, had argued against it. 

"What if they're just hungry?" she'd pleaded. "What if they have families?"

Ultimately, they compromised. Ibnor set up a series of noisy traps around the cave entrance, enough to scare off the bandits without causing serious harm. It was a less efficient solution, but it satisfied Harin's conscience and, Ibnor had to admit, his own as well. He realized that while survival was paramount, maintaining some semblance of humanity was just as important.

It was also during this time that Ibnor began wearing a mask. It was no longer a simple leather covering for his lower face. This mask was crafted from sturdier materials – scavenged metal plates shaped and hammered into a full-face covering, with narrow slits for his eyes and small vents for breathing. The mask was impersonal, almost emotionless, hiding every trace of his features. He reasoned that given the fact he was now living in the past, a time before his original arrival in Skyrim, any recognition from his future self could create a paradox. It was a precaution, a way to minimize potential complications.

From that day forward, Ibnor never removed the mask. Not when he ate, carefully lifting the bottom edge just enough to slip food beneath. Not when he slept, the cold metal resting against his cheek. Not even when he bathed in the secluded pond, the mask remained firmly in place. It became a part of him, an inseparable extension of his identity.

The days continued to pass, turning into weeks, then months, then years. Harin grew, slowly but surely, her small frame gaining strength, her English improving dramatically. The bond between them deepened, forged in the fires of shared hardship and mutual reliance. They were an unlikely pair, brought together by impossible circumstances, bound by a shared secret and the struggle to survive in a world that was both familiar and utterly alien. Harin couldn't remember Ibnor's face clearly. She knew him only as Loki, the masked protector, his voice muffled slightly by the metal covering, his eyes the only visible window to his thoughts. It was an unusual existence, but it was theirs.

Their conversations, often held around the flickering campfire, were a strange mix of practical survival tips and philosophical discussions.

"Loki," Harin would ask, poking at the fire with a stick, "why do you always wear that mask?"

Ibnor's masked head would turn towards her. "It's… a precaution," he'd reply, his voice muffled by the metal. Sometimes, he'd add, in a low, almost wistful tone, a line from a long-forgotten game: "Sometimes, the paths we walk are not our own."

Harin would tilt her head, a slight frown creasing her brow. "What does that mean?"

Ibnor would simply shrug, the movement barely visible beneath his furs. "It means… some journeys take longer than others."

Another time, after a particularly close call with a bear, Harin, visibly shaken, had asked, "What if we hadn't gotten away? What if…?"

Ibnor placed a hand on her shoulder, his masked gaze fixed on the fire. "Every man has his destiny," he said, the familiar quote a strange comfort in this dangerous world. "But sometimes… When a man is faced with his own death, he finds the impossible less of a barrier."

Harin would often question his cryptic pronouncements, but she had come to accept them as a part of him. They were a reminder of his past, a past he couldn't or wouldn't share. And yet, they also offered a strange kind of wisdom, a perspective gleaned from a life lived in a different time, a different world. It made her feel safe. Even if he refused to show his face, she trusted him. He was Loki, her masked protector, her unlikely companion in this strange, new world.

The years continued to pass, and the bond between Ibnor, or Loki as Harin knew him, and the girl grew stronger. Their conversations, once tentative and hesitant, became more comfortable, filled with shared jokes and quiet moments of understanding. But one recurring element of their interactions began to shift: Loki's cryptic pronouncements.

At first, Harin found them intriguing. They were like riddles, glimpses into a past Loki refused to fully reveal. 

"The wind is free, but the sand goes where it is blown. Unaware of the world around it," he'd say, his masked gaze fixed on the fire. Or, after a narrow escape from a pack of wolves, "Every man has his destiny."

Harin would tilt her head, genuinely curious. "What does that mean, Loki?" she'd ask, eager to decipher the hidden meaning.

Ibnor, or Loki, would offer vague explanations, often adding another quote: "But sometimes… the sands of time shift beneath our feet, and we find ourselves on a different path."

This became their routine, repeated countless times over the next few years. Harin, at first intrigued, then patiently tolerant, began to recognize the patterns. The familiar phrases, once a source of comfort, now elicited little more than a weary sigh.

One evening, after a particularly arduous hunting trip, Loki, his masked face turned towards the setting sun, began, "It is said some lives are linked across time, Connected by an ancient calling that.…"

"echoes through the ages, Destiny," Harin finished flatly, not even bothering to look up from sharpening her dagger. "And then the sands of time, blah blah blah, different path, blah blah blah. Can we please talk about something else?"

Loki's masked head turned towards her, the narrow slits of his eyes widening slightly. "You… you know it?"

Harin groaned. "Not all, but that one! You say it every time something remotely dramatic happens! It's from the Prince of Persia, isn't it?"

Loki froze. "How…?" He thought, his mind racing. He'd been so careful.

"Prince of Persia?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

"Yes! Prince of Persia! The Sands of Time! You're quoting the movie, aren't you?" Harin crossed her arms, tapping her foot impatiently. "I used to watch it all the time!"

Ibnor remained silent for a moment, his mind trying to catch up. He had completely forgotten that Harin, being from the same time period as him, would also know of the movie. It was a glaring oversight.

"So," Harin continued, tapping her finger on the ground for emphasis, "are you going to finally give me the Cliff's Notes version of this philosophical nonsense, or am I going to have to start charging you for each repetition?"

Ibnor chuckled, a muffled sound from behind the mask. "Alright, alright," he conceded. "You caught me. It's a habit, I suppose. It's… a reminder of a different time."

"A time with less sand and more… indoor plumbing?" Harin quipped, a playful smile returning to her face.

From that day on, the dynamic shifted. The cryptic pronouncements became a running joke between them. Whenever Loki started a quote, Harin would finish it, often adding her own sarcastic commentary.

A particularly fierce storm raged outside, rattling the makeshift door. Loki, ever dramatic, began, "Sometimes…"

Harin cut him off, perfectly mimicking his muffled tone. "Sometimes, the paths we walk are not our own, and we end up in a cave in Skyrim with a masked weirdo who quotes video games and movies," she recited, not even pausing for breath. "Can we at least try a different game next time? Maybe Portal? I'm getting tired of all this sand."

Loki let out a muffled laugh. "Hey!" he protested, though a smile was evident in his voice.

The quotes, once a source of mystery and intrigue, became a source of shared laughter, a connection to a world they both remembered, a world that was now impossibly far away. It was a small, silly thing, but it was theirs, a testament to their unlikely friendship in a world that was both similar, and yet, not the same.

Survival in Skyrim demanded difficult compromises, and for Harin, the most difficult was coming to terms with killing. The first time she had to defend herself, against a rabid wolf that had cornered her near the pond, she'd been sick for days afterward. The memory of the creature's snarl, the feel of the rough stone clutched in her hand as she struck, haunted her dreams.

Ibnor, or Loki, had watched her silently, his masked face impassive. He hadn't offered empty platitudes or false comfort. He simply showed her how to properly clean her makeshift weapon, how to treat the bite she had received, and how to better defend herself in the future.

The next time, against a lone bandit attempting to rob them, was less traumatic, but still unsettling. Each subsequent encounter, whether with wild animals or desperate humans, chipped away at her initial revulsion. It wasn't that she became callous or bloodthirsty. Rather, she developed a grim pragmatism. She understood that in this world, sometimes killing was not just necessary, but the only way to protect herself and Loki.

Throughout this process, Harin noticed something peculiar about Loki. He was fiercely committed to his word. He would make promises, sometimes seemingly small and insignificant ones, and then go to extraordinary lengths to keep them. He'd vow to return with food by nightfall, even in the face of blizzards or dangerous encounters. He'd promise to protect her, and she knew, with unwavering certainty, that he would lay down his life to do so.

One evening, after Loki had risked life and limb to retrieve a rare herb she needed for a makeshift poultice, Harin finally confronted him about it.

"Why?" she asked, watching him meticulously clean his mask. "Why do you always try so hard to keep your promises? It's… dangerous."

Loki's masked head turned towards her. His voice, muffled by the metal, was low and serious. "Taking a life… it takes something from you," he said. "It takes a piece of your soul. We lie, cheat, steal, and kill to survive in this world. The only thing we have left, the only thing that separates us from the beasts, is our word. Our promises. If we can't even keep those, then… then we've lost everything. We've lost our humanity."

Harin considered his words, the firelight reflecting in her eyes. It was a bleak philosophy, born of a harsh reality, but there was a profound truth to it. In a world where everything could be taken from you, your word was the only thing you truly owned.

As the time continued to pass, Harin internalized Loki's philosophy. It became her own. She learned to be careful with her promises, but when she gave her word, she kept it, no matter the cost. It became a defining characteristic, a source of strength and integrity in a world that often lacked both. She became known, at least to herself and Loki, as a woman of her word. Just like her masked protector.

Despite their shared philosophy on keeping their word, there were times when Ibnor, as Loki, and Harin found their interests clashing. Harin, now inhabiting a young body but possessing the mind of a twenty five-year-old, yearned to explore the world beyond their cave. Loki, however, was content to remain in their secluded haven, prioritizing safety and minimizing the risk of exposure.

These disagreements often sparked heated arguments. Loki, with a hint of amusement in his muffled voice, would tease, "Ah, Harin, now that you've grown up, you think you know better than me, eh?"

Harin would bristle, her eyes flashing. "I am a grown woman!" she'd retort, her voice sharp. "I'm not a child anymore, Loki! I can make my own decisions!"

These verbal sparring matches, more often than not, escalated into physical confrontations. It was a strange ritual they had developed, a way to vent their frustrations and assert their independence. They would spar in the small clearing outside the cave, their movements a blur of fists and feet. Sadly for Harin, Loki's experience and training, honed over years of surviving in Skyrim and enhanced by… Well, let's just say experience, gave him a significant advantage. He was faster, stronger, and more skilled. Every time, without fail, he emerged victorious, though he always held back, never truly hurting her.

These repeated defeats only fueled Harin's determination. After one particularly bruising encounter, where she ended up sprawled on the ground, winded and sore, she glared up at Loki, her eyes blazing with defiance. 

"I swear," she gasped, "I will never leave your side… until I can beat you in a fight!"

Loki, his masked head tilted slightly, let out a muffled chuckle. He didn't take her threat seriously. It was just youthful bravado, he thought. He had completely forgotten the weight Harin placed on her words, how deeply she had internalized his philosophy of keeping one's promises.

Little did he know, Harin had taken her vow to heart. Her word was her bond, and she was determined to see it through. Every day, she practiced, honing her skills, pushing herself to her limits. She studied Loki's fighting style, analyzing his movements, searching for any weakness she could exploit.

Despite the predictable outcome of their sparring matches, Loki often relented and gave in to Harin's desires. If she wanted to visit a nearby village to trade for supplies, he would accompany her, his masked presence a silent deterrent to any would-be trouble. If she expressed a yearning to see a particular landmark, he would guide her there, his knowledge of the terrain ensuring their safety.

He did it partly out of a sense of responsibility, but also because he had grown to cherish her company. Their arguments and sparring matches, though sometimes heated, were a vital part of their bond. They were a reminder that despite the strange circumstances that had brought them together, they were still individuals, with their own desires and dreams. And even though he hid his face behind a mask and his past behind cryptic quotes, Loki, in his own way, cared deeply for Harin.

However, there were moments when Loki's protective instincts veered into what Harin considered condescension. During one argument about whether or not they should venture further south, Loki had said, "Harin, it's too dangerous. You're still…" He trailed off, gesturing vaguely to her small stature.

Harin's eyes flashed. "Don't you dare finish that sentence," she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. 

"I may be in a child's body, Loki, but I am not a child. I am twenty-seven years old. I have lived a life. I am not some fragile little thing you need to constantly coddle." She crossed her arms, her small frame radiating defiance.

"I understand the dangers. I've seen what this world is capable of. But I refuse to be treated like I'm helpless just because… this happened." She gestured down at herself with a frustrated sigh.

Loki remained silent for a moment, his masked gaze fixed on her. He could see the anger in her eyes, the frustration etched on her young face. He realized he had been inadvertently dismissing her experience, focusing on her physical form rather than the mature mind within. He gave a slight nod, a silent acknowledgment of her point. From that moment on, he tried to be more mindful of his words, remembering that while Harin's body might be young, her spirit and mind were anything but.